


Insomnia

by Alitheia



Series: Metropolitan Police!AU [1]
Category: Joker Game (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Police, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-27
Updated: 2016-08-27
Packaged: 2018-08-11 08:30:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7884031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alitheia/pseuds/Alitheia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes a night could last for centuries.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Insomnia

**Author's Note:**

> Joker Game © Yanagi Koji and I do not gain any profit from writing this fanfiction.
> 
> Indonesian version is available [here](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/12121615/1/Insomnia), and Chinese translation by [Chrysopidae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chrysopidae) is available [here](http://chrysopidae.lofter.com/post/39e0b4_c357d87) (Thank you! :D). English is not my first language, if you found any error I would happily (also appreciatively) revise. Hope you enjoy!

Sometimes a night could last for centuries.

Many things kept him company while he was sleepless. Ones that constant like the _tic-toc_ of the wall clock or the low hum of heater in the corner of the room, ones that sporadic like the dull clunk of a neighbor’s door or the barking of a dog from afar. Sounds that are insignificant, sounds that are easily forgotten; but Sakuma heard and remembered them all, as loud and clear as the busy crossroads in the city and the laughs that loaded bars he often dropped by along with the First Division of Criminal Investigation Department. He had stayed awake all night far too many times to ignore the noises; therefore he knew by heart, that it was the kind of solitude for someone who was waiting.

He had tried every means to fall asleep; listening to a calming music, adjusting his breathing, even taking a little cup of chamomile tea. They all ended the same, Sakuma would only lie on his bed with eyes trying to shut and mind running, body stiff and beaten like and an old wooden doll until morning drew close. When he realized his insomnia would never be cured, he finally decided to change his working shift from afternoon to night. That way it would’ve been better, he concluded, being a detective frequently messed up his bedtime anyway, so why didn’t he just change it altogether?

For the first few weeks, work did seize his attention, and for quite some time he was able to free himself off the time he wasted in agony for not being able to sleep. But then the case dwindled and came the dratted days named weekends, and Sakuma found himself back sitting on the sofa, listening to the voices of night while an invisible alarm in his head reminded him that Miyoshi hasn’t come home.

Sakuma knew the pace of the clock is unchanging, but it didn’t stop him from checking the time every chance he got. One glance, _forty minutes before the last train_ ; another glance, _twelve minutes before the last train_ ; a glance once more, _ten minutes after the last train_. Miyoshi might take a taxi, like he sometimes did when he missed the last train, or perhaps Amari who just bought a car would be generous and gave him a ride home since they headed for the same direction. But if that was the case then Miyoshi would call, yet there was no hint of if happening, just like the message that never reached his inbox and the phone that never rung; Sakuma knew there was no use in waiting. Miyoshi probably opted for the first train.

* * *

Perhaps his sanity evaporated along with the night wind, like his consciousness when morning arrived.

Through nighttime Sakuma would go out of his way to busy himself, since doing simple tasks were still better than spending the entire night by staring at the ceiling. He would wash the dishes, prepare tomorrow’s lunch, take out the trash, clean the sink and vacuum the bedroom floor. When all of them had been done he would be reading documents from work—who knew maybe it’d help him in any case he was working on—or simply sitting on the sofa in front of the television, watching their favorite crime series.

He remembered how serious Miyoshi looked when they watch the episodes together, with legs folded and a blanket wrapped around the two, hands occasionally reaching out for the snack on the coffee table. Sometimes when the show had just started, sometimes nearing the end, they competed to figure out who was killer. Miyoshi had never been wrong—to the point he started to think that maybe only those who possessed psychic abilities could be admitted to the D Division for Special Investigation Cases, the division Miyoshi was in—while Sakuma wasn’t always right, but Miyoshi said that he was still far more intelligent than anyone in the First Division.

The man would stroke his hair and left a peck on the side of his chin, “For Sakuma-san who’s able to find the suspect,” he would chuckle, somehow gracefully, with glistening eyes and when he blinked Sakuma couldn’t stop thinking that those eyelashes were unduly pretty for a man to have. Nevertheless, he’d ceased thinking entirely, when he caught Miyoshi’s lips with his own and the man would breathe out a melodic laugh. Nights when they were together were always the most precious; every inch of him was Sakuma’s—from the neck to the collarbone, from the fingertips to the slim waist, from the limbs wrapped around him to the toes—everything of Miyoshi was his, and his whole being too was Miyoshi’s. Their existence melted and fused, merging into one, boiling away all burdens and tired minds.

He knew they couldn’t always have it that way. It wasn’t rare for work to steal those lovely nights; not much of a problem if they were working on the same case or busy with each own, but Sakuma especially loathed the days he went home only to find that Miyoshi had to work overtime. He hated the part where he’d be waiting for the man to come home, alone with the clock that ticked like a haunting heartbeat, while counting the minutes left to the last or first train.

When his concentration waned he would stop in the middle of anything. Sakuma then would climb onto the bed that was too big for him to sleep on alone, cursing the somnolence that would engulf him only when the sun had begun to peek through his curtains. In those moments he would use his remaining consciousness trying to listen, to the hiss of train and the grinds of its wheel on the rail, searching for the first signs of life. When the first train started to operate, it meant that Miyoshi would soon come home, and Sakuma wouldn’t be alone. He would open the front door slowly and entered the bedroom very carefully, placing a tender kiss on Sakuma’s forehead. “I’m home, Sakuma-san.”

* * *

At the end of his wait, the train carrying Miyoshi never did arrive.

Perhaps in truth, he had never actually been waiting, for could someone wait for something that obviously would never come? No matter how long he’d wait—the whole night, the entire season, or years and decades and centuries, the man would never return home. Just like his train that never reached the station (derailed from its course, on one snowy day; the cold made the haze on its windows as white as a tired, hopeless breath).

Miyoshi didn’t always send him a message and Sakuma did the same. There were just times when work really took all attention that they forgot to inform each other, and therefore born a mutual understanding; _if I don’t come home tonight, then I’ll be with the first train_. Miyoshi often scolded if Sakuma waited for him until morning, saying that the stress in the office was dreadful enough and no one needed to ruin their health even more by pulling an all-nighter for something that wasn’t necessary. But Sakuma would still wait until he heard the other’s voice at the front door, because trying to sleep without him by his side was futile.

That night went by without any message or a phone call; Sakuma sat on the sofa, eyes on a commercial program of kitchen utensils that he didn’t have any interest in. That wasn’t something worth watching, but somehow his mind was too distracted to be able to focus on their usual series.

Outside the autopsy room after, Sakuma was told that Miyoshi had just came back from reporting his last case—impecably completed, just like all work he had done in his entire career—and the man had taken the first train from the station that was closest to the police department building. One of the debris in Miyoshi’s car had pierced him fatally and he lost too much blood; when they ran him to the hospital, he left his last breath on the street. When he heard this, Sakuma had nearly burst into a hysterical laugh—Miyoshi? _That_ Miyoshi? _His_ Miyoshi? If only memories could store someone’s consciousness and he could tell the man that one day he died just because of a ridiculous train accident, he was certain that Miyoshi would explode in one of those rare laughter, until his eyes were teary and his cheeks blush, just like when Sakuma tickled his sides or when he heard unbelievably stupid stories about the First Division Chief.

Now when he recalled, all of it had long gone by, even Sakuma thought he had learned to accept. But his insomnia was a proof to another; that he might after all still not cut for reality, that he might still stuck inside the world where sounds like the humming heater and the barking dog were his company, whispering time, reminding the count; _Miyoshi’s still not home, Miyoshi’s still not home._

When the first train had passed and the remains of his awakening caught the rays of morning sun, he could tell that today Miyoshi wouldn’t come back too; _maybe another overtime, maybe another case_. Even though Sakuma knew, oh of course he knew, better than anyone else, that there was no use in waiting for someone who was no longer existed. But still those nights he spent by being awake, perhaps wishing for a miracle, or probably just waiting for his mind to be shattered completely and he turned genuinely mad, Miyoshi would come through the front door, returned to his embrace, chasing away his insomnia and they could drift off to an eternal dream.

Sakuma could only wait, though sometimes a night could last for centuries.


End file.
